


a session with dr. martin whitly

by dryadfiona



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Coming Out, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family Issues, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Weddings, chris fedak thats my emotional support projection character, trigger warning for, unhealthy views on therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23151373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dryadfiona/pseuds/dryadfiona
Summary: Malcolm keeps declining calls from Claremont Psychiatric. Ainsley starts getting calls from an unknown number.
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Martin Whitly, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 51





	a session with dr. martin whitly

When Ainsley was five years old, her father was arrested in connection with at least 23 murders. Her brother had called the police and a cop named Gil Arroyo came to the house to clear up the misunderstanding.

Ainsley doesn't remember meeting Gil for the first time. She doesn't remember watching her father get taken away in cuffs, though she's seen the pictures, read every article. She remembers being in her mother's arms, wondering why she was holding her instead of the nanny. She remembers her brother telling her everything was going to be okay, and asking him what was wrong and him not answering.

Even then, they always wanted to protect her from him.

Ainsley remembers her first therapy appointment. The therapist was an older woman, a few gray hairs mixed in with the mousy brown. She'd asked to try on her glasses, and the therapist had said yes. She remembers hearing her mother's heels clacking in the next room.

"I can't see," she'd said, confused, because weren't glasses were supposed to help people see better?

"Not everybody needs glasses," the therapist said, taking them back and blinking a few times. "And if you don't need it, it doesn't help you. It even makes things worse."

She's pretty sure that had led into a discussion of why she wasn't taking the same medication her brother was, but she doesn't remember that conversation, just the lesson she'd been taught by mistake--you shouldn't take something unless you _need_ it.

When Ainsley was in the third grade--or maybe the second, she had the same teacher for both--she told her mom she didn't want to go to therapy anymore. Jessica's first response had been to look for better therapists, more expensive therapists, a veritable gaggle all trying to prove that Ainsley would be comfortable with _them_.

"No, mom," she'd said after three consecutive meetings with three different psychologists. She'd felt so grown-up. "I don't need it anymore. I'm fine!"

"Are you?" Jessica had said, a glass of something Ainsley wasn't allowed to drink in-hand. 

"Yes, mom," she'd said, and meant it. She was fine. She barely remembered Dad, anyway.

She remembers every detail of her mom's big, watery smile, of the hug that was still rare in that house, of a quietly murmured _thank God_ against her ear. She's happy that she can make her mother happy.

She didn't need therapy. So she shouldn't go. 

Malcolm went to therapy until he went to college, and she remembers Jessica donating an awful lot to Harvard's counseling program once he was there. She doesn't know if her mom sees a therapist. They don't talk about therapy. 

They talk about Malcolm. They talk about Malcolm's job at Quantico and how worried her mom is about him, because people there think he's like Dad. She stops trying to talk about what majors she's considering, how her classes are going, her shitty history professor that dissuaded her from academia in general. They talk about Malcolm at the FBI, and how worried her mom is about him, because that job is all murder and danger. She stops trying to talk about why she's interested in journalism, about Nellie Bly and the good the truth can do.

They talk about her job, though never the details of her reports, more the suits she's wearing and why the station needs to hire someone better at makeup, apparently. They talk about her mom's social events and some of New York's eligible bachelors that Ainsley always feigns interest in and cancels the dates at the last minute. They talk about nothing at all, but Ainsley keeps going home, hungry for what snippets of real, deep conversation she can get.

Malcolm gets fired from the FBI, and Ainsley tells her mother as soon as she hears, eager for conversations to move towards her, finally, with Malcolm unemployed. Of course, they talk about Malcolm, but her mom says she's glad that Ainsley knew to tell her, and then they talk about her.

Time _flies_.

Then Gil brings Malcolm onto a case, and it's all back to Malcolm. Ainsley bites back her disappointment, and tells her mom at the first opportunity, because at least she's making her happy.

* * *

Ainsley gets a call about her brother in the hospital. She already knows the conversation with her mother will be awful. Still, Malcolm's her brother, and she loves him, so she goes and tells the nurses about how he needs to be tied down. One of them says something about recognizing her from TV, but calls her Daisy, so it's not the ego boost she's looking for.

When she walks into the room, he's mostly dressed and ready to go. She isn't surprised, and, despite her annoyance, feels a little fond of him anyway. He says he'll sign whatever, and she knows better than to try and talk him out of it. 

Then she notices his phone and all these missed voicemails. Malcolm lies to her about it, and her annoyance spikes, and she hits play.

Hearing her dad's voice is weird. She's heard his voice before, naturally, from her piecemeal memories from before his arrest to the news reports she watched and rewatched and rewatched again once she'd moved out, just to know.

She'd watched everything she could. All the reputable reports and the sensationalist exposés and weirdly horny true crime podcasts, all the articles, anything and everything Martin Whitly. They'd all used the same clips. She knew the words to those clips, the intonation, the place they'd usually cut to make the clips seem creepier than they were. 

This is something _new_.

She barely pays attention to when she scolds Malcolm, the general worry she has about her mom driving the conversation more than her own concern. She's just thinking about her dad, and his voice, and something _new_ about him.

For the rest of the day, Ainsley thinks about how she hasn't seen him since his trial, and how she barely remembers that, anyway--busy doodling angels in the lining of her coloring book. She wondered where he'd gone but knew enough about what was going on to not ask her mom, gripping her hand tight enough to bruise. 

She wonders a lot that day, after making sure her idiot of a brother gets out of the place without getting involuntarily hospitalized. She wonders about the other things her father's done after his arrest, locked up in Claremont. She wonders about what he said in the voicemails she skipped past. She wonders if he's on his approved visitors list. 

She wonders about _that_ for a long time.

* * *

Ainsley finds out she's on his approved visitors list after a few late night calls. The studio's cameraman, Jin, asks her if she's okay the next day, the bags under her eyes darker than they've been since college. She's already anticipating a text from her mother about the studio's makeup artist. 

"I'm fine," she says, and realizes how harsh she sounds when his small smile drops a bit. "Thanks for asking, though. I appreciate it."

"No problem," he says, smile back in full force. "Late night?"

"Yeah," she says.

"Out partying?" he asks, and this is, sadly, one of the longer conversations she's had at the station with anyone other than Leslie.

"Not really my thing," she says with a smile, carefully practiced to look casual.

"Mine either," he admits. "Not always sure what else there is to do in the city."

"You've just moved here?" she asks, gently nudging the conversation to him and not her. She's used to that. She's good at that.

"Yeah, LA doesn't really need any more people in show business," Jin says with an awkward smile. "New York is more...genuine."

"That's not what people usually say about here," she says, charmed a little despite herself.

"Compared to California..." he says, letting the sentence trail off.

"Fair," she says with a light laugh, taking another sip of her coffee.

"I'd like to get to know the city better," he says. "Maybe, uh, get to know you better?"

"Sure," she says easily. She prefers dinner with her mom to dates that won't go anywhere, usually, but it's all Malcolm-Malcolm-Malcolm recently, and she wants to talk about anything else with anyone else.

"Really? I mean, great! I'll, uh--"

Ainsley reaches out a hand. "Gimme your phone. You'll need my number." She smiles again, playful.

Jin smiles at her and hands her his phone, and she puts in her number and her name with a little microphone emoji next to it. He smiles when he sees it, and for the rest of the day when he's filming, even with all the crime scene technicians rushing around them.

* * *

Jin takes Ainsley out to dinner at a place she recommends, and they talk about Los Angeles and cameras and a variety of TV shows. They don't talk about Ainsley's talk with her mom that she can't stop thinking about, about _do you sleep at night_. Jin leaves with a deep kiss and a promise of doing that again, and Ainsley's thoughts turn from him as soon as she closes the door.

 _Do you sleep at night_ , her mother had asked her, and she lies awake in bed for a long time thinking about it, staring out her window at the lights. It's comforting, normally, the signs of life, the reminder that she isn't as alone as she feels she is, sometimes.

She doesn't remember what her mom was like before her dad was arrested. She has vague memories of vacations to the Hamptons, but when she thinks of Jessica Whitly, she thinks of a drink in her hand and drugs in her purse and a line of tension in her shoulders that never goes away. 

_Do you sleep at night_ , her mother asked, and that night, she doesn't, and walks into work the next day with dark bags under her eyes and a practiced smile on her face and tells Jin, "I was busy thinking of you" when he asks about it.

* * *

Ainsley keeps going out with Jin, and feels bad about the fact that she _doesn't_ feel all that strongly about him. Their conversations are fun distractions from her mother and her brother's quickly worsening mental health, about her mother visiting her father, about the fact that she's on her father's approved visitors' list.

Malcolm tells her he watches her reports, and she feels--something, she feels so _much_ about it. She feels so energetic she might as well be vibrating, like she's had three cups of coffee in an hour. And for the first time, when she takes Jin out to a little hole-in-the-wall that's not nearly as secret as it makes itself out to be, she talks to Jin about her dad.

"The Surgeon?" he says.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, um, I think I'm gonna interview him."

"It'd make a great interview," he says. "Would you be okay doing that, though?"

It's not at all what she's thinking about, because of course she'd be fine, why _wouldn't_ she be? She says, "I think so," though, because she doesn't feel like being needlessly aggressive. "And it could help my career!"

"True," he says. "I'd be there for you, you know? And not just because I'm the best cameraman at the studio."

"The best, huh?" she says with a sly grin, and that's all it takes for her to turn the conversation back to Jin.

Ainsley pulls him through the doorway of her apartment, his lips on hers, and his smile against her face is so sweet. He's sweet, and she falls asleep easily with someone curled into her side.

When she wakes up, her face on his chest, she expects to feel comfortable, somehow. Seen. But despite how nice the warmth of another person against her feels, she feels trapped, now, that same energy from the other day making her feel like she needs space.

She wakes him up when she extricates herself from his arms, and he asks sleepily what's wrong, because he's sweet.

"Not used to sleeping with people," she says. "I mean--actually sleeping. You're fine."

"Fine, huh?" he says.

"You were great," she says with an eyeroll and a little smile to show she's not actually upset. "I just--I'm sorry. I need to get used to, um. You being here."

She can't think of a way to say it that doesn't make her sound like an asshole, and she _isn't_ one, she thinks. He's understanding, though, apologizing for making her uncomfortable, so she reassures him he didn't, it's just--her.

She's fine, though. She's fine.

* * *

When Ainsley walks into Claremont and asks to see Dr. Whitly, the man at the desk looks surprised. He doesn't comment, though, just asks for her ID to verify her identity, and she's waved in through the metal detectors and approaching the door.

He's not facing her, and it makes it easier to keep walking, to not stop halfway from the door. The guard lets her in with a little nod and nothing more, and then she's in the room and he's turning, saying, "Malcolm, you really should respect your mother's--" And it shouldn't surprise her, that he's talking about Malcolm, but it does, somehow, and she, embarrassingly, annoyingly, feels upset about it. She shouldn't want her--serial killer father's attention. But then his facial expression changes, shifts to something she doesn't recognize, and he says, "Ainsley?"

The door locks behind her, and she glances down, away from him, taking a breath. "Dr. Whitly," she says, proud of the way her voice isn't wavering. "It's...been a long time."

"It has," he says, his expression slowly shifting, like he's genuinely happy to see her. "But please...call me Dad."

His smile gets wider, and she has to hold back one of her own, trying to make its way onto her face without her permission.

"Uh, won't you take a seat?"

"I prefer to stand," she says quickly. 

He's still smiling, and he says, "I've missed you."

Ainsley scoffs quietly, because it's the same meaningless platitude she should've expected. "You don't even know me."

"Well, why don't we remedy that?" he says. "Tell me something. Anything."

She wants to. She wants to start talking about herself, about how she read about Nellie Bly in the eighth grade and was captivated by what the truth could do, about how she feels like no one's ever really _seen_ her, not ever. But that'd be stupid; talking about herself is a one-way ticket to her friends leaving, her mom worrying, her bosses telling her they're not sure women are cut out for real journalism.

So she says, "I'm not here to talk about me. I came to ask for an interview."

"An interview," he says, still smiling, but less a wide grin, more something genuine. "Seems a little exploitative. Then again, I've been exploiting others my whole life."

"As a serial killer?" she interrupts.

"No, as a white man. We're terrible." He chuckles, and she looks down and away from him again, willing herself not to smile. It's the type of joke she'd make after a couple gender studies classes that all her rich friends would tell her weren't really _appropriate_. "Oh, I don't know, Ainsley," he continues, and she can feel her heart drop, because she's not coming back without an interview, and she already wants to come back. "Uh, would I get the questions?"

She shakes her head, because she can't give him any more. She _can't_. "Give notes on the cut?"

"No," she says simply.

"I'd hate to disappoint you," he says, and some part of her recognizes that this, what he's doing, the way he's acting, is just a trick, somehow, because he's a serial killer, a monster, because he _left_.

But another part of her hears that he's thinking of her, and she steps forward before she even pays attention to what she's doing, saying, "Then say yes." She catches herself before she crosses the red line on the floor, and there's no guard in the room. God, she's being _stupid_.

His gaze flickers down to her feet at the line, and he looks vaguely, politely surprised.

"I've never asked you for anything else," she pleads, and she didn't want to make this personal, but it was always going to turn out this way, right? He's her dad. She may not remember him, really, but--he's her dad.

He blinks, makes an expression she recognizes instantly as the beginning of a no. She exhales quickly, and decides to go back to what she knows. Questioning. Digging for the truth.

"Okay. You wanna know the questions? How?" Dr. Whitly never did any interviews, so all the articles she'd read were speculation, psychological musings that she knew just enough about to recognize it was mostly bullshit. "How could you kill 23 people? When did it start? And why?"

He tilts his head up, looking at her like he's almost disappointed, and irrationally, she wants him to not be.

"That's the most important question," she says, because this is work. Not personal. She's good at work. "Why did you do it?"

"That's not the most important one," he says, voice low, and starts to walk toward her. She takes a step back immediately, glancing at the door, breathing faster than she should be. He keeps walking calmly, like the line is just a line and not safety, not a barrier between them. She nearly backs into the door before she hears him reach the end of the tether and stops herself. "Deep down, there's another question that you desperately need answered."

Ainsley keeps her eyes on his feet at the line, breathing deeply, reminding herself that as long as she stays away from that barrier, she's safe.

"And I'm wondering..." he says, and she looks up to meet his gaze. "Are you brave enough to ask it?" He looks at her head-on, and she looks down and takes a breath. He knows her, somehow. He sees her.

"Was it real?" she asks, looking back up at him before she can lose her nerve entirely.

"There's my girl," he says quietly.

"Did you love us, or was it just some psychopathic act?" she asks, well-aware her voice is wavering now, but she's this far gone. At least he won't be the one leaving her alone, at the end of this. She's walking out, not him.

"I've thought about you every single day since my arrest," he says, and she takes a shaky breath in. "I'd imagine myself there on birthdays." It's too much, and she has to look away before she starts crying, focusing on the bookshelves, the peeling paint, the red line between them. "Piano recitals. Dancing with you at the debutante ball."

"I was never a debutante," she says, to say something, to keep from crying so easily when she looks back at him.

"That's a shame," he says, and she thinks he means it. "The one I dreamed of you was...quite the party. You demanded the band play 'Single Ladies.' Mother was mortified." She smiles despite herself, looking away from him again. "I, of course, loved it."

Ainsley laughs, and can't remember the last time she felt so recognized in a conversation with her mother. She puts a hand on her face, and realizes that he's done it, somehow. Gotten his hooks in her as easily as he must have Malcolm and Mom. She can't--

"I have to go."

"Ainsley," he says quickly, pleadingly, and she turns back to him. "That imaginary life...is the most real thing I know." His voice wavers, just like hers, and she exhales. "The one place I get to be a father." She can feel herself starting to cry, so she bites her tongue, ignoring the way her lip is quivering, the tears she can feel threatening to spill over. "God, I'm embarrassed to admit how often I visit it. I will never forgive myself for not really being there."

She should want to hear about how he won't forgive himself for taking 23 people away from their families. She should want nothing to do with him. But God, having her family be something other than fractured, having someone talk about what she actually _wants_ , having someone there for _her_.

"And neither should you," he continues, and he starts to tear up, too. "You deserved so much better than me."

Absurdly, some parts of her wants to deny it, to say that he's the father she's got and they can try from now on. She doesn't say that, though. No one deserves a serial killer father, but the teary smile on his face reminds him of Mother's when she said she didn't need therapy, like he's trying to be optimistic in the face of something he believes to be rotten to the core. She wants to make him feel better, the way she always does for her mother.

But he's seeing _her_. Not whatever her mother sees. 

"I--" She says. "I don't--"

"Sweetheart," he says, and she thought she remembered that nickname when she was a kid. Hearing it again makes her has to look away again. "Let's do the interview."

"Really?" she asks, voice small.

"Really," he reassures her, and when she looks back, he's not tearing up anymore, smiling at her hopefully.

"I'll make sure you get the questions," she says, because he's giving her so much, now. She wants to give him something. He smiles at her, wide and genuine. "Um. Thank you, doctor--" She stops, takes a deep breath. "Thank you, Dad."

"Ainsley," he says, something open in his voice that she can't remember ever hearing from her mother when she was sober. "I look forward to seeing you again."

"Okay," she says. "I--okay."

When she leaves Claremont, eyes wet, she runs on autopilot back to her apartment, blessedly quiet and alone. It's only then that she allows herself to break down completely, sobbing into a pillow that smells a little like Jin.

She's ignoring his texts asking if she's okay, because she doesn't want to talk to him about any of this. She doesn't want to talk to anyone, not Malcolm or her mother or the closest person she has to a friend--Leslie, probably. She wants to cry out all her feelings in peace, get back to feeling calm and content and fine.

She'll be fine.

* * *

The interview goes badly. Martin manages to twist what she says and she's so angry at him, at him showing her that clearly whatever connection she thought they'd had was bullshit, at how he's just using her like everyone else. So when she gets an idea--to use Malcolm, because of course he'll care about Malcolm, he's all anyone ever cares about--she runs with it, ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her head that says she's crossing a _line_. This is her story, dammit, not her brother's, and she's going to control it.

When Martin starts yelling, she's not ready, even though she knew it was coming, and she steps back again, scared. Of what, she doesn't know, because he's on the other side of that line and she's not crossing it.

Then Jin gets stabbed, and Martin starts to save him. She films the surgery just for something to do, and asks him questions just for something to say. Staying in her comfort zone, staying on the other side of the line.

Ainsley doesn't love Jin. She only sort of distantly likes him, really. But it's her fault he's here, and he's sweet, so when Martin tells her he'll be okay, she says, "Thank you."

He smiles back at her, like he almost means it, and she thinks she might come back.

* * *

Ainsley hears that Martin orchestrated the whole thing on the way to the hospital to see Jin now that he's out of surgery. Malcolm doesn't sound surprised, just tired, and she keeps her tone neutral, mildly disappointed, even as the taxi driver asks her quietly if she's okay.

"I'm fine," she snaps, because she's fucking _fine_.

When she gets to Jin's room, she edits the interview. She manages to make him look like the monster he is but knows she'll be using the surgery footage, because it's television gold. It's also a way for her to talk about how emotional the experience was without giving anything real away.

"Ainsley," Jin says, and she takes the headphones off and smiles at him. She doesn't tell him about the surgery--she'll figure out a way to do it, practiced expressions and just the right words.

But then there's a serial killer, and her brother's voice on the phone is the only thing keeping her from losing it completely. When she makes her way back to the room, she knows talking about what she's just been through will be a great in for her to get him on board with the footage, but he's already watching it.

"I just don't think that's the kind of person I want to be with," he says, and he looks at her, and he sees her.

But he doesn't, he _can't_. She can't be the kind of person people see and decide isn't worth it. She has to be the type of person people just aren't seeing, that has to be it, or the fact she's alone is her fault.

And it can't be. It just can't. She doesn't go back to talk to Martin.

* * *

There's a serial killer chasing her again, and she's thinking about angel statues and ghosts and imaginary friends. It's too much, too many thoughts in her head and no way to process them, and the head wound she gets doesn't exactly help.

Her mom presses a cloth against her head and says little meaningless things, but the worry on her face is real, and part of her thinks about how if she's going to die, at least she's dying knowing her mother cares about her. She hopes Malcolm's okay, that the cops find her and her mom as close as they are now.

Then Malcolm yells something, and walks in, and she runs up to hug him, and her mom's arms are around them both, and that's enough. They're okay. This family is hers, and it's what she has.

Even if they don't see _her_ , they care. She's not dead, and they care. That'll be enough.

* * *

Ainsley doesn't go back to Claremont. She talks about a story about the victims with Leslie, because Dr. Martin Whitly is a serial killer, and the conversation shouldn't just be about him. If it works as a reminder that she shouldn't go back to him, that his goodbye smile to her was fake because he orchestrated everything, then that's just an added bonus.

She keeps pushing for that story, and after her father calls into the show and nearly dies, one of the older producers gives her the go-ahead, saying that apparently the Whitlys are big news now. She says thank you, still a little in awe her pitch got approved, and he waves her out.

When she texts Malcolm, excited, he responds slower than he normally does, but agrees to come to family dinner that night.

Family dinner's still at the old house, and Ainsley has to take more moments to wait and breathe at the door before walking in than she does. The paparazzi there now are small fish, and she doesn't even acknowledge them or their questions. Interest in them died as Dr. Whitly didn't, and new information would need to come up before the media frenzy started up again.

When she tells Mother that she plans a follow-up focusing on the victims, she nods, distracted. Malcolm's hand is shaking, and neither of them meet her gaze when she asks what's going on.

"Come on, I'm fine," she says. "Just tell me, please? Don't keep me out of things anymore. I'm part of this family too."

"Martin said he'll tell the world that I was the one who stabbed him," her mother says. "Unless Malcolm keeps seeing him."

"Oh," Ainsley says, because of course it's about Malcolm.

"If I go see him until he completely heals," Malcolm says. "Then he won't have it over our heads anymore. We'll be able to get away from him then."

The conversation doesn't get back to Ainsley's story, and she listens, silent, while they talk about Martin and Malcolm and all the dysfunction there. The food is excellent, but the metallic tang in her mouth from where she's bitten her tongue overpowers it. If either of them notice her teeth are stained a little red when she smiles a polite goodbye at them, they don't comment.

Of course they don't.

* * *

Malcolm sees Martin more and is all the worse for it. Ainsley tries to temper her disappointment at being sidelined _again_ with the reality that her father is a monster and her brother is hurting, but it's hard. She doesn't remember a time when her brother wasn't struggling, and she's just used to it. She feels worse about not feeling bad than she does just in general.

Ainsley works harder and harder on her pitch, and Leslie's slightly judgmental comments are the most feedback and insight she gets on it. Her mother knows the victims by heart, but feels too guilty to talk about it, or too distracted with whatever nightmare Malcolm's living through this week. She knows better than to trigger her brother's guilt complex by asking him his thoughts, and that's her whole network right there.

Jin doesn't smile at her when he's filming, anymore, and one day she hears that he's moving back to California.

She doesn't miss him, not really, but she misses having someone to spend her evenings with. Her nights--she's fine alone, there. She doesn't sleep as easily anymore, but it's fine. It's easier this way.

Leslie's busy with pieces "people are actually interested in", and the most fulfilling conversations she has are with the families of the victims. The ones who'll talk to her, anyway. Most of them slam the door in her face with a few choice words for her, and she wants to tear the door open and _scream_ about how this is her story, too, but she doesn't know if it actually is. 

She's fine. She doesn't need therapy and she doesn't need medication and she doesn't _need_ her mom's time and attention the same way Malcolm does. She wants it, though, wants to sit down with her and talk about _her_.

They talk about Jessica, sometimes. They talk about her work with Eve and helping victims of human trafficking, and when Ainsley tries to bring up her story again, her mother says "Don't talk to me about Martin Whitly" in the tense, sharp tone she remembers from when she first started asking questions.

Ainsley stops trying to bring up her story, and talks lightly about the fluff pieces she's working on, the big media interviews, her mother's reintroduction into high society. She doesn't tell her that her seat at the Taylor wedding was all her, because she doubts her mom wants to hear about it. Besides, she's happy that her mother is happy. She is.

After dinners with her mother become her main social life, she texts Malcolm, desperate for something to break the monotony, even if she's sure that conversation is going to be all about how Dad is ruining his life, or night terrors, or something else she'll feel a little bad about but mostly can't really sink her teeth into.

He doesn't reply for a long time, until after they would've hung out, and her worry spikes. The last time Malcolm wasn't responding to her texts, their father was on his deathbed, and the time before that, he was kidnapped by Ainsley's childhood imaginary friend.

Like every time she thinks about Mr. Boots, her heart starts beating faster and her breathing gets quicker and her nails dig into her palms, little red crescents of blood welling up bringing her back to reality. She's not sure what that is, but she's fine.

Malcolm texts her back the next morning, when she's busy rereading articles from before her father's arrest to see if there's something she can use. He says he's sorry and that they can hang out tonight. She asks him what he was up to, since normally he's pretty good about texting her back when there aren't imminent crises, and he takes over an hour to say that he was with Dani.

He doesn't respond when she asks what case he's working on, which could mean he doesn't want her digging into it. Most of the time he'll just tell her what she wants to know, though, and besides, he and Dani are friends now, so maybe it was just a normal hang out.

* * *

Malcolm gets closer with people from the precinct. He and Dani hang out practically every day, and Ainsley misses conversations other than her mother's polite disinterest or Leslie's biting criticism. Malcolm and JT get along, even if JT would never admit it, and Edrisa's crush fades into the background when she realizes how much fun it is to argue about the specifics of mortuary science with Malcolm instead.

Ainsley hears about all of it from Jessica, her relief that he has a network beyond her. It pisses her off in a way she can't really articulate, that it's all Malcolm, all the time, when he's struggling or when he's _not_.

If it isn't that he needed help and Ainsley didn't, then her mother's just ignoring her, and that's--not fine. She ignores her mom's texts for a week, throwing herself into her work with a zeal so furious even Leslie asks if she's okay. She doesn't answer, and Leslie shrugs and walks away. They're not friends, not really, they're coworkers in an industry designed to pit them against each other.

The problem with ignoring her mother is that her mother has Malcolm, and Gil, and Eve, and all those high-society frenemies her mother delights in bantering with. Ainsley has Jessica, and Malcolm, and both of them are busy with people other than her.

Her loneliness drives her back to the house, and she takes a minute to breathe before walking in again. When her mom asks if she's okay, she smiles and says, "Busy with work, sorry," and they leave it at that.

Jessica smells like cologne, and when Ainsley asks about it, expecting gossip about some tryst with some socialite, her mother flushes a brilliant red, and says Ainsley must be imagining things. She tries to push further, but her mother redirects the conversation to _Ainsley's_ love life.

"Oh, I--I'm not seeing anyone," she says, confused, because this isn't how these conversations go. 

"Come on, no strapping cameramen catching your eye?" her mother asks, a sly smirk on her face.

"Um, Jin moved back to LA," she says. "No one's really, uh, been interested."

That's a lie. She gets the usual weird letters from true crime fans, talking about all these things they want to do to her, sometimes violent, always uncomfortably sexual. But no one who actually gives a shit about _her_ , no one sweet, no one who won't take up more of her time than she feels okay giving.

"That's a shame. You know, I had dinner with a real estate mogul the other day, and his son--"

The conversation's back to her mother's expectations of her, easily redirected, and normally she'd rage at the way an opportunity to talk about herself was taken away from her _again_. Instead, she feels a weight off her shoulders, and she's not sure why.

* * *

Malcolm stops going to see Martin. Martin tells everyone Jessica's who stabbed him, and the news almost universally agrees how awful it is, that a serial killer's lying to try and manipulate his poor son into going back to see him. The media frenzy focuses on Malcolm, and Ainsley'd offer to help, but he doesn't need it, as he tells her over takeout in her apartment.

"Dani scared the ones lurking by my place straight," he says with a small smile.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Dani," Ainsley says, lifting a knowing eyebrow. "Are you two--"

"What? I don't--that's--you're assuming a lot," Malcolm says, flustered.

"Wow," Ainsley says dryly. "You've got it _bad_ , huh?"

Malcolm gives in almost immediately, and the light-hearted conversation about her brother's utterly predictable crush cheers her up. He doesn't ask her about her love life, which, again, is a relief. She's fine. She's lonely, sure, but she's got her career to work on.

"You told her you should have her punch you every night?" Ainsley laughs, wine-drunk.

"Yes," Malcolm groans. 

"And then _choked_ during the landmine case?"

"Yes," Malcolm says.

"Malcolm--"

"I know," he says. "I know."

Ainsley tells him he should tell her, because she's only met Dani a few times, but she's so clearly protective over Malcolm that either she's on the same wavelength or their friendship is strong enough to survive his crush. Malcolm makes no promises, which means he won't say shit until a near-death experience or four. 

"Do you know who Mom's seeing, by the way?" she asks.

"Probably some socialite, right?" Malcolm says, face flushed from the wine. 

"That's what I thought, but she wouldn't tell me!" Ainsley says. "You should ask her."

"If she wouldn't tell you, why would she tell me?" Malcolm asks, confused.

Ainsley takes another drink of wine. "Because you're her favorite?"

"What? No. You are."

Ainsley laughs. "No, I'm not! She always talks about you."

"She told me you were perfect when I moved back to New York," Malcolm retorts.

Ainsley rolls her eyes. "She doesn't, like, think about me, though." It's too honest, too open, but she's tipsy and tired and alone. "You know? She just doesn't...think about me."

Malcolm frowns at her. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" she says, and she's tearing up a bit, so she takes a drink of wine to focus on the taste of it in her mouth, to keep from giving so much away.

"Ains," Malcolm says. "You okay?"

"Obviously," she says.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn't leave it at that. "No. Seriously. You okay?"

The concern is nice, but it's stifling, too, the threat of him knowing everything. 

"I'm just drunk," she says, which isn't an answer, but he takes it as one with a small, awkward smile.

* * *

Ainsley keeps getting calls from an unknown number. She's busy with her story and doesn't feel like getting on any robocall lists, so she keeps declining, focusing on a chat conversation with the mother of one of the victims. The woman's emotional, and Ainsley's gentle pushes for more information aren't getting her anywhere, but she stays polite, professional, mostly detached.

At the end of the day, she doesn't really have more information for her tell-all, and it's looking like it'll be more of a tell-some. She gets into a taxi and only then notices that whoever called her left voicemails, so maybe they _weren't_ spam calls. But she doesn't normally answer calls at work, anyway, so it's no one she knows.

That's what she thinks until she puts the phone to her ear and presses play on her voicemail, and her dad's on the other end. Hearing his voice without preparing for it is a shock, and she blinks a few times before she even really starts to process what he's saying.

"...sweetheart, it's your father! Just calling to see how you are. I know it's been awhile since we've talked, since I was in isolation and all, but I hoped you would visit once I was out."

"Ainsley, me again. We haven't talked since I called into your show, call me back."

"I hope you're alright, Ainsley. I'm not sure why you're not picking up my calls--"

She hangs up on her voicemail and calls her mother. 

"Ainsley? Did we have plans tonight?"

"No, I--"

"Are you alright?"

"Dad called me."

"He what?"

Her mother's voice is low and angry, but not really protective, defensive. Something in her is disappointed. 

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I just--"

Ainsley's not sure why she called her. She needed to talk to someone about it. But her mom's focused on being angry, and it's not the listening ear she wanted. 

"I just wanted to let you know," she says, feeling cold. "Because he might try to call you or Malcolm."

"Oh, Ainsley," her mother says, fond but not--listening. "Thank you. I'll let Malcolm know."

"Okay," she says, and hangs up. "Excuse me?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Change of plans. We're heading to Claremont Psychiatric."

* * *

She comes just at the tail end of visiting hours, and it's clear the guard at the front is annoyed with her, but she can't bring herself to care, showing him her ID on rote and walking through. The clack of her heels against the floor is all she's really aware of, the creak of the door as Mr. David lets her in with a little nod.

"Ainsley!" her dad says. This time he's facing her, but it's easy to walk in and let the door close behind her. For the second time in decades, she's alone in a room with her father. "You got my calls!"

"Yeah," she says. "I was...at work."

The conversation is stilted, awkward, but he's smiling at her like he's thrilled to see her.

"Oh, I didn't mean to interrupt," he says.

"You didn't," she says.

After a beat, where he's clearly waiting for her to say something more, he asks, "What are you working on?"

"A follow-up to your interview," she says slowly. "Focusing on the victims."

"Oh," he says, and she's ready for the anger, the accusations, the manipulation typical of an abusive serial killer. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm proud of you."

"...what?"

"So many journalists focus on sensationalism over the truth," he says. "And it's only natural that you'd want to interview me, but at least you're trying to do some good with the media frenzy." She sniffles, and he looks at her, sort of alarmed. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," she says. "No, you didn't, uh. It's just--the most interest someone's shown in it, so far."

"Yikes," he says. "That's sort of messed up."

Ainsley laughs, feeling lighter than she has since Watkins nearly killed her. "Yeah. But thank you."

"Every father should show interest in their children's work," he says. "And you're good at what you do."

Part of her recognizes this is empty flattery, but it's something, and she smiles, eyes watery.

"You realize Mr. David is going to tell Jessica you showed up," he says calmly.

"Probably," she says, and she's had no one to talk to, _really_ talk to for so long, so she almost talks about how she doesn't think her mother will care, anyway. She has some common sense, though, even if she's ignoring it by standing here, so she doesn't. Instead, she sits, and he smiles at her, and they talk about her story, the obstacles she's hit, the articles she's read for research, until visiting hours are up.

"Will you come back?" he asks, hopeful.

"Yes," she decides, and nods to Mr. David on her way out.

Her mother calls her as soon as she's in another taxi on her way home, talking about how her father is a virus, about how if she makes another story about him she'll have gone and soaked herself in his blood. Ignoring the driver's increasingly agitated looks back at her, she talks about how she's _not_ working on another story about him, and she's an adult, anyway, and she's _fine_. She doesn't need her mother's overprotectiveness.

"There is no reason for you to go to him," her mother says.

"He's my dad," she says, willing her to understand.

"You don't know him," her mother warns, and something in her snaps.

"Well, you don't know me," she says, and hangs up.

She ignores her mother's calls for a week, and ignores Malcolm's worried texts, and doesn't ignore the calls from Claremont (saved in her phone as Dad).

* * *

Ainsley doesn't talk about her mother with Dad. She talks about her work, and he nods to encourage her to continue when her voice trails off, unused to talking about herself for so long. He talks about his days, banal in their routine, group therapy sessions he always seems to have funny anecdotes about. Sometimes she wonders if any of them are true--he's been accused of being a pathological liar, after all.

But it's something new, and he lets her talk about things she doesn't talk about with anyone. She talks about how she never felt all that interested in Jin and feels a little bad about it, and he reassures her that she shouldn't, because relationships can't be forced. It's sage advice, albeit from a serial killer, and it puts a little pep in her step on her way out after that visit.

She's back to having dinner with her mother and Malcolm, and ignores them when they ask her about Martin.

"If you're interested, you go talk to him," she says, and tries not to notice the way Malcolm flinches a bit. She notices how her mother's attention immediately turns to him when he does. 

After half a dozen visits, she says something she's barely even paying attention to about how annoyed she is that everything's about Malcolm, and shuts up as soon as it's out of her mouth.

"Well, that's only natural," Dad says, and she's about to rage at him and never come back when he continues, "Usually, boys get more attention from their mothers."

"Please don't start talking about Freud," she says.

"No, not at all," he says, nose wrinkled in disgust. "Our society just focuses on men over women, and women are told to be nurturing. I'm not a sociologist, but I'm fairly certain there's a connection there."

"I was going to, uh, study sociology," she says. He lifts an eyebrow, letting her know she can keep going. It's such a small gesture, but it feels like so much. "I was really interested in why people did things, but I had some really bad professors that turned me away from staying in school."

"And that's why you switched to journalism?" he asks.

"It seemed like a good fit," she says. "When I was in middle school, I read about Nellie Bly, and--"

"Nellie Bly!" her dad interrupts. "The woman who saved New York's asylum patients."

"You know about her?" she asks, voice small.

"Well, I take a personal interest in that," he says, gesturing to the room around him as best he can with the cuffs on. She laughs. "But I always thought it was inspiring. Her quest for truth and knowledge, even if the people around her didn't recognize it as a worthy goal at the time."

"Yes!" she says. "Yes, exactly."

"Genius isn't appreciated in its time," he ponders, and she knows he's talking about himself, but they're talking about Nellie Bly. "Do you know her real name?"

"Elizabeth Cochran Seaman," she says, and he nods with a quiet _atta girl_ that she shouldn't enjoy quite as much as she does.

* * *

Malcolm and Dani get together after a case where they have to go undercover. Or something. Ainsley isn't really paying attention. The last time she went to talk with Dad, he pointed out how Malcolm was a part of her life without her really being a part of his, and having someone recognize that no one really sees her, having someone _see_ her, is so much that she ignores the little voice in her head telling her he's just trying to keep her from the rest of her family.

Malcolm stops texting her as much as he used to. It could be because he's busy with his a new relationship, but the nasty voice in the back of her mind that's started to sound like John Watkins tells her that it's because he doesn't feel like she's worth the effort, anymore, because he has other people now, and she's still alone. 

She goes to see her father more often, now. Weekly instead of monthly, twice weekly instead of weekly, nearly every day. It's where she stops once she gets out of work, and work is less of a focus now.

She talks to him about her job, though she's stopped caring so much about her story about his victims. It's been decades since he killed someone. He's a threat, still--she doesn't cross the red line between him, and part of her tenses whenever his tether goes taut, when he leans forward, almost past that barrier. Almost.

He talks to her about his days, still, but there's only so much going on when you're in a psychiatric institution and your consulting privileges were severely limited because you encouraged another prisoner to kill someone. Ainsley doesn't ask him about that, knows their bond is fragile enough to shatter if she pushes it, and it's what she has, now that her dinners with her mom are monthly rather than weekly. 

Dad talks to her about his life before the arrest, though not his murders. He offhandedly mentions once that he used to talk to Malcolm about his murders, and some irrational, hungry part of her wants to tell him she can talk about that too, that maybe she isn't a psychology major at Harvard but she wants to hear about it too. She wants her father to tell her anything and everything. She wants, a pit in her stomach that hasn't been filled as long as she comes here.

At one point, he mentions Watkins, and she tries to hide her flinch. He notices, because he pays attention to her, and asks her if she's okay.

"Yeah, just--it's weird," she says.

"Because he was in your childhood home?" he guesses.

"I guess," she says. "Um, more that he was my imaginary friend. As a kid."

"What do you mean?" he asks, something careful in his tone. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"Do you remember Mr. Boots?" He nods. "Uh, I thought he was a ghost, but it turns out it was Watkins. He gave me an angel statue--I knew it wasn't you, because you--"

"I gave you books," he says, voice still eerily calm. "Not statues."

"Yeah," she says, pleased that he remembers. "So that was...not great. And then he almost killed me."

"What?" he says, low, angry. He relaxes a bit when she moves as if to get out of her chair. "I'm not mad at you, sweetheart, I just didn't know. Are you okay?"

"It's been months," she mumbles, looking away from him and the concern in his eyes. "You can barely even see the scar."

"There's a scar?"

She shows him the mark on her head, easily concealed by the makeup artists in the studio, but she missed work today. Wanted a longer conversation with him.

"Oh," he says. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

"Nothing you could have done," she mumbles, still not looking at him, playing with the hair that normally covers the scar.

"If I was there, I'd have killed him," he says simply. "You're _my_ daughter. I'd protect you."

And that concern is something like love, or close enough to it that she feels a little less alone, so she ignores the little voice saying this isn't healthy, because it's all she has.

* * *

Months pass like this. Her mother stops trying to dissuade her from talking to her dad, but still exchanges anxious glances with Malcolm whenever she mentions him. It's annoying. She's _fine_.

Years pass like this. Malcolm and Dani get engaged and Jessica puts aside her disappointment that Malcolm isn't marrying someone high-society to plan the wedding of the century. Dani's maid of honor is someone named Edrisa, and Gil is Malcolm's best man. Ainsley's a maid of honor, but mostly as an afterthought--Dani doesn't have a ton of friends, and Malcolm probably told her to put his sister somewhere.

"Malcolm's getting married?" her dad says. "Oh, how wonderful. How is that going?"

He always asks about Malcolm, when she visits. How he's doing, the cases he's working, if it seems like he misses him. Ainsley tries not to take it personally, but it can sting. He always shifts the conversation back to her when she gets uncomfortable, though, and it's more than her mother would do in the midst of a Malcolm conversation, so she keeps coming back. The voice in her head doesn't sound like Watkins anymore, but it's starting to sound like her dad, self-assured, calm, morbidly funny.

The wedding has more photographers than Cal Taylor's, which Ainsley thinks is a little ridiculous, considering what one of the photographers there was there to do. Malcolm looks nice, though the suit isn't all that much fancier than what he normally wears. Dani's wearing a dress far simpler than Jessica would have preferred, and it's clear the happy pair don't care about any of the fancy things around them, eyes only for each other. Ainsley feels a normal, familiar pang of loneliness, of wanting something she's never been happy having.

They say their vows, and they're sweet, but Ainsley hasn't really been close with Malcolm in awhile, only keeping up with him to have something to talk with Dad about. They kiss, and people cheer, and Ainsley dutifully claps and smiles.

She wasn't asked to give a speech, but Jessica's speech is lovely, about how happy she is that her son has a support network, now, about how he's happier than she could've expected back when Martin was arrested. It's more honest than she normally is sober, and when she sits down, she takes a huge drink. Gil next to her pats her on the back and hands her water, and her smile towards him is unexpectedly soft. Dad was right about them, apparently. Dad's right about a lot.

Gil's speech starts with how he's not sure which one of them he should warn not to hurt the other, and the laughter is predictable and comforting. He talks about how long it took them to get there, full of anecdotes Ainsley doesn't remember hearing about at all. JT gives a speech that's very clearly warning Malcolm away from hurting Dani with a brief aside at the end about how Malcolm's better than he thought, he guesses, and his wife Tally, sitting next to Ainsley, calls out that he can admit they're friends now to more laughter. Edrisa gives a speech about how she's glad she got over her crush so that this could happen, and Ainsley sits and smiles and drinks.

Malcolm and Dani are both awkward dancers, Malcolm with too much formal training, Dani with none whatsoever. But they're happy, smiling at each other. Gil and Jessica are dancing, too, both of them looking away from each other even as they stay close. Ainsley stays on the sidelines by the bar, pleasantly tipsy, ready to tell all the details in the news report she'll inevitably have to do.

She remembers when her stories were about things that mattered, but it's so much easier to do the fluff pieces and save her energy for other things. Her dad always tells her to save her energy, but she's so lethargic nowadays. It's those sessions that wake her up, in the morning before work and in the evening after, almost every day, now. She's sure he'll get sick of her, but he never does.

Dani stops dancing and heads over, a smile still on her face, and asks for some water from the bar. "I'm not used to dancing," she tells Ainsley, and Ainsley nods. "You good?"

"Fine," Ainsley says, because that's what she says.

"Good," Dani says. "We're gonna be throwing the bouquet soon, be sure to be there for that."

"Aren't you supposed to do that right after the ceremony?" Ainsley asks.

"I guess? I figured it was just some high-society bull," Dani says, and Ainsley cracks a smile despite herself. "I know my ex will be jumping for those flowers."

"I thought girls were supposed to catch the bouquet," Ainsley says, sort-of teasing, but mostly just commenting. "Or is that more high-society bull?"

"My ex is a girl," Dani explains. "I'm bi."

"Oh," Ainsley says. "Cool."

Dani smiles at her, downs the water, and heads back to the dance floor, presumably to keep drunk-Malcolm from dancing with someone he shouldn't, like JT who's happy with Tally in the corner.

She thinks about nothing at all for awhile, heading over when someone yells something about the bouquet because that's what maids of honor do. She's not paying attention, and the thing flies practically right at her, so she catches it to keep it from messing up her makeup. Her mother cheers loudly from somewhere behind her even as the crowd around her groans.

A tall, imposing woman in a suit with short, dark hair and bright blue eyes says, "Ah, I'll get it next time."

"It's just superstition," she mumbles, already annoyed with the way a few of the guys here are coming up to talk to her.

"Still," the woman says. "Hey, let's go grab a drink. It'll keep the crowd away from you."

"Please," Ainsley says. "I'm Ainsley."

"I know. I watch your reports," the woman says with a smile, and Ainsley perks up. "I'm Blair."

"Nice to meet you," Ainsley says, and means it for the first time in ages. "What's your poison?"

"I'll have whatever the lady's having," Blair says to the bartender, and Ainsley orders a sweet, fruity, highly alcoholic cocktail with an umbrella in it. The conversation between them flows easily, easier than any conversation with someone other than her dad has in awhile, and Ainsley's thrilled that maybe she's found a friend.

"Weird to watch your ex get married," Blair says.

"You dated my brother?" Ainsley asks. "Gross."

"No, Dani," Blair says with a laugh.

"Oh," Ainsley says. "I didn't realize--"

"That I was gay?" Blair says. "My flirting must not have been obvious enough, then."

Ainsley takes a swig of her drink, big enough to taste the alcohol that's normally hidden in the sugar. "Um."

"Sorry," Blair says. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

She's sweet, and Ainsley isn't, so she gives some piss-poor excuse and makes her way out, waving Malcolm and Dani and her mother and Gil goodbye, and none of them give her a backwards glance. She's not sure why she's so anxious, why her heart is beating against her chest like a jackhammer, why her blood is thumping in her ears. She's not, like, homophobic, she's had gay friends, but--

Blair was flirting with _her_. 

She tells the taxi driver to go to her apartment, then changes her mind and asks for Claremont Psychiatric. The guy looks her over in the mirror, her messy makeup and fancy hairdo and expensive dress, and starts heading there.

"Ainsley, I wasn't expecting you," her father says, not looking up from his book until the door shuts behind her. "Oh, you look beautiful. That dress is your color."

"Dad," she says.

"Sweetheart," he says, and the familiar nickname soothes her a bit. "Is everything okay?"

"I--" She says. "Did I ever tell you that I don't go to therapy?"

"I don't think so," he says. "Come on, take a seat, you're shaking."

She sits down, scooting the chair a little closer to the line she's never crossed as long as she's been here. "Um, when I was a kid Mom made us see a bunch of therapists because, you know."

"Your father's a serial killer," he says, making a face that normally makes her laugh, but she's still anxious, nails digging into her palm.

"Yeah," she says. "And I stopped when I was in the third grade, because I didn't need it. Or I thought I didn't need it. And I wanted to make Mom happy by being fine, so I just--I was fine."

"Ainsley," he says, something almost tender in his voice.

"But there's--I couldn't talk to her about things after that. Because I was fine. I was the kid that was fine, and Malcolm was the one who was messed up." She's talking faster than she should, she knows more about diction than this, but she can't stop. "And then I couldn't talk to friends about things, and every relationship I ever had fizzled out, because I couldn't--I didn't know how to _talk_ to them."

"You can talk to me," he says, and she looks up at him.

"I know," she says, and she does. "I just--"

"Ainsley," he says. "What's wrong?"

"I think--" She sniffles, looking back away from him. He doesn't pry, just listening. "I was never really interested in anyone. I never had any close friends and all my boyfriends were just--so I had someone there. I was so _lonely_."

"There's nothing wrong with that," he says.

"I think I'm gay," she says before she can lose her nerve again.

"Sweetheart," her father says. "Look at me."

She doesn't, not right away.

"Look at me, Ainsley," he says, more a command than a request, and she obeys, still a little frightened of when the veneer of calm cracks. "I'm so proud of you."

"Wha--"

"I'm so proud that you could trust me with this," he says. "I don't know who else you've told, but--"

"No one," she says, quickly, eager to reassure him even though she doesn't know _why_. "You're the first person."

"Oh, Ains," he says, a nickname she's used to hearing from Malcolm . "Ainsley, I'm proud of you."

She can feel her mascara running, and she's sure she looks like a complete fucking trainwreck. "Say that again?"

"I'm proud of you," he repeats, and throwing caution to the wind, she hugs him, stepping over the line.

Her dad can't move to hug her, cuffed as he is, and he stiffens in surprise. She's sniffling into his cardigan, and Mr. David is opening the door and pulling her away. 

"Sorry," she says, staying on the other side of the line.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he says, glancing at Mr. David, who hasn't left the room this time. "A daughter should be able to hug her father." 

Ainsley nods, wiping at her makeup. 

"Are you going to tell your mother?" he asks.

"I think so," she says. "I know she's okay with, uh, gay people, since she officiated Eve's wedding."

"It's your decision," her dad says, but she can hear the judgment in his tone, and she desperately wants it to not be there. 

"Why shouldn't I tell her?" she asks.

"Well, you know your mother," he says. "She may be progressive, but she has an expectation for what her kids lives' should look like. Marriage and kids and trips to the Hamptons."

"Oh, yeah," she says. "Oh, do you think she'll--"

"I don't know, sweetheart," he says. "But whatever you decide, I'll support you."

It's exactly what she needs to hear, and the voice in her head that sounds like Dad's lingers with her long after she leaves.

* * *

"Darling, why'd you leave the wedding early?" her mother asks the next family dinner, Dani sitting at Malcolm's side, Gil sitting at Jessica's.

"I realized some things," she says.

Her mother raises a brow, willing her to continue, and Dad's voice in her head goes, _well, you know your mother_.

"Nothing important now," she says, phone vibrating in her purse. "Would you excuse me?"

She'd changed the contact name for this number from Claremont Psychiatric a long time ago, and _Dad_ is big and bright on the screen. She picks up, leaving the dinner with a little wave at Malcolm, who's busy talking with Gil, and Jessica's busy with Dani, but Dad's busy with _her_ , and that's enough.

That has to be enough.


End file.
